Teach me Right, and I’ll Do you Wrong

The first bell of the semester rang, echoing across the old stone walls of Manchester University. Students flooded the hallways like they already belonged here laughing, calling each other’s names, hugging as if they’d known one another for years. It was my first day too, but not really. Technically, I was already in my second year of college. I’d spent my freshman year back home in South Carolina, in a tiny art department where everyone knew everyone. I thought that was where I’d stay safe, comfortable, predictable. But then a letter showed up in our mailbox four months ago. Manchester University. Acceptance. I remembered holding that envelope with trembling hands, reading the words over and over. I’d applied on a whim, half-joking to my best friend that there was no way an elite art program like this would take someone like me—someone who still sketched with crayons when she was bored. Art wasn’t my talent; it was my escape. My father, of course, had other plans. “Medicine,” he said, “is the only kind of art that matters.” I chose my heart over his voice. But the funny thing about dreams is, they never tell you how lonely they can be once they start coming true. When I stepped off the bus in Manchester last week, I realized I’d never really been away from home before. I’d never left my family. Never left him. Yet something in me said I had to. That if I stayed, I’d always wonder what was out there. I wanted to live, to make mistakes, to get lost, to do the things my parents warned me about. Parties. Midnight drives. Broken curfews. Boys. Especially boys. Now here I was, walking into my first class as a transfer student—Art and Music Theory, Room 204. The walls smelled faintly of varnish and acrylic paint. I found an empty seat in the third row and tried to look invisible, which was impossible since everyone else seemed to already know each other. They laughed in clusters, exchanging inside jokes that I wasn’t part of. Maybe someday I’d fit in. Maybe. “Hey, you’re the new girl from that county town, right?” The voice came from my left. I looked up and for a moment, forgot how to breathe. He had the kind of face people wrote songs about. Tousled brown hair that fell over blue eyes, the kind that shimmered when the light hit them just right. A sharp nose, lips curved into a knowing smile. He looked like someone straight out of Pinterest or a bad-boy in a w*****d novel, if I’m being honest, but the difference was, this wasn’t fiction. “Yeah,” I said finally, smiling back. “Naomi Joshua. And it’s South Carolina. I prefer that you call it that.” “Naomi Joshua,” he repeated, rolling my name around like he was testing how it sounded. “It fits you.” He extended his hand. “Nickerson Sage. But just call me Nick.” I shook it, his palm warm against mine. “Nice to meet you, Nick.” Before we could say another word, the room quieted. Someone had entered. A tall man walked toward the board with steady, confident strides. His presence alone seemed to silence the chatter. He began writing something on the chalkboard, back turned to us. I didn’t recognize him—at least, not yet. “Later, Naomi,” Nick whispered, flashing me a grin before sitting up straight. “Good day,” the man began, his voice deep and composed. “I’ll be your new instructor for Music. As you all know, Mr. Hamilton passed away before the semester started. May his soul rest in peace.” A murmur of sympathy spread through the class. “But my face won’t be new to most of you. I’ve been teaching at this university for three years now—mainly Health-related subjects.” He turned around. And my world stopped. My pulse began to race, my stomach dropped, and suddenly the air in the room felt thinner, like it had been stolen from my lungs. He froze too, mid-sentence, when his eyes found mine. Those eyes. That face. That voice. I knew him. And he knew me. The night came flooding back—the dim light of a hotel room overlooking the Manchester skyline, the warmth of his hands, the taste of his breath against my lips. The way he whispered my name like it was something forbidden. I remembered the heat of his skin, the way his heartbeat matched mine, the scent of him mixed with sweat and wine. That night, I thought he was a stranger I’d never see again. A reckless mistake. My first. My first to everything. “Naomi?” Nick’s voice pulled me back. Everyone was staring, some curious, others confused. The professor was staring too, his face unreadable. I realized that the professor called me and couldn’t hear him from the fact that I’m not on my mind. “I… I’m sorry,” I mumbled. He cleared his throat. “It seems we have a new student. Would you mind introducing yourself to the class?” My legs felt like lead, but I stood. I could feel his gaze, steady, intense, guilty—on me. “I’m Naomi Joshua,” I said softly. “Nineteen. From South Carolina.” “Thank you, Naomi.” He nodded once. “I’m Joshua Wheeler. Your instructor for Music and Biology.” My heart stuttered. Joshua Wheeler. The man I’d spent one unforgettable night with. My professor. The man I lost my virginity to.